Chapter 10 Riley
Riley
One month into the arrangement, and I was starting to forget it was supposed to be temporary.
That should have terrified me. Should have sent me scrambling back behind the walls I'd spent a lifetime building.
But the fear that usually came with wanting things—sharp and immediate, the kind that made me pull away before I could get hurt—had dulled to something quieter.
Something I could almost ignore if I didn't think about it too hard.
The court-appointed evaluator was coming tomorrow, and the ranch was in chaos.
I stress-cleaned the kitchen while Liam tackled the living room, both of us moving with the frantic energy of people who knew they were being judged and couldn’t afford to fail.
Every surface had to shine. Every pillow had to be fluffed.
Every sign of the careful distance we’d maintained had to disappear.
Which meant moving my things into Liam’s room.
I watched from the hallway as he carried my pillow down from the guest room, tucking it beside his on the bed we were supposed to be sharing.
His nightstand—previously bare except for a lamp and his phone charger—now held my book, my reading glasses, and the small bottle of lavender oil I used to help me sleep.
Something twisted in my chest.
This is pretend, I reminded myself. This is strategy. Appearances for the evaluator—nothing more.
So why did seeing my shampoo next to his in the bathroom make my breath catch? Why did the sight of my robe hanging on the back of his door feel so unexpectedly right?
“We’ll say you’re organized and I’m a disaster,” Liam called from the bedroom. “That’s not a lie.”
“Exactly. Best lies are mostly true.”
I heard his footsteps before I saw him. Then he filled the doorway, leaning against the frame, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.
“See? We’re naturals at this deception thing.”
Our eyes met, and I almost smiled back.
A month ago, I wouldn’t have given him even the hint of a smile. I would’ve kept my walls firmly in place, let his humor slide off without ever landing.
But somewhere between the barn chores and the shared dinners and the quiet evenings on the porch, something had shifted.
His jokes didn’t irritate me anymore. They brushed closer than I was comfortable with. Almost made me want to smile.
And that scared me more than any court hearing ever could.
That night, we gathered around the dinner table for what Liam called a strategy session. In reality, it was just the three of us trying not to panic.
Mia looked between us, unimpressed. “So I’m supposed to lie?”
“Not lie.” I chose the words carefully, aware of the line I was walking. “Just… don’t volunteer information. Answer what they ask. Nothing more.”
“What if she asks if you guys are actually in love?”
Neither of us answered.
The silence stretched—thick, uncomfortable.
I glanced at Liam. He glanced back. We had nothing.
Mia rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. She stabbed a piece of chicken with her fork. “You’re both terrible at this.” She sighed. “Fine. I’ll say you’re disgustingly happy and I wish you’d stop looking at each other all the time. That believable enough?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Had no idea what to say to that.
Liam cleared his throat. “We? Looking at each other?”
“All the time,” Mia said flatly, in the tone of a twelve-year-old who had clearly noticed something the adults were still pretending not to see. “It’s gross. Very convincing.”
She went back to her dinner, leaving Liam and me to avoid each other’s eyes for the rest of the meal.
The evaluator arrived at nine the next morning.
Her name was Judith Crane, and she was every bit as intimidating as I’d imagined. Mid-fifties. Silver threaded through dark hair pulled back tight, not a strand out of place. Her eyes were sharp and unblinking, the kind that didn’t just look but recorded. Nothing slid past them unnoticed.
The moment she stepped inside, my body reacted before my mind did. Shoulders tight. Breath shallow. That old instinct—stand straight, give nothing away—settling deep in my bones.
Judith moved through the house with measured efficiency, clipboard tucked close, pen scratching softly as she went.
Every question was precise. Neutral. Delivered in a tone that revealed nothing about what she thought of the answers. No reassurance. No disapproval. Just collection.
I felt like evidence.
Every step she took seemed to narrow the room. Every note she made landed heavy in my chest. I tracked her movements without meaning to, cataloging my own space the way she did, suddenly aware of every imperfection—every corner that might be interpreted the wrong way.
This wasn’t a normal visit. It was a test. For both of us.
“Nice property,” she said, her gaze sweeping the living room, clinical and thorough. “How long have you lived here, Mr. Murphy?”
“My whole life.” Liam shoved his hands into his pockets, then pulled them out again, like he couldn’t decide where they belonged. “It’s been in my family for three generations.”
“And Ms. Santos, when did you move in?”
The question landed on me without warning. I straightened, fingers curling once at my side before I answered.
“About a month ago. After we got married.”
Judith glanced down at her clipboard, pen moving in a short line. No reaction.
“I’d like to see the master bedroom.”
My stomach tightened.
The bedroom—the one place where the seams showed if you looked too closely. Where my life had been set beside Liam’s and arranged to resemble something cohesive instead of hurried.
I gestured down the hall, already moving, forcing my steps to stay even.
She took her time once inside. Counted without counting. Two pillows on the bed. The spacing between them. The bathroom sink—his razor, my toothbrush, aligned but not touching. Her gaze lingered just long enough to make my pulse stutter.
Then the closet.
She opened the door, eyes scanning the row of Liam’s shirts and jackets. The empty half beside them. Her pen paused midair.
“Separate closets?”
One eyebrow lifted—just a fraction.
“I’m a disaster,” Liam said easily, stepping in without hesitation. “Seriously. My system is an insult to the word system.” He gestured vaguely at the closet, like the evidence spoke for itself. “Riley keeps her things in the guest room so my chaos doesn’t infect her perfectly folded sweaters.”
Judith’s lips twitched. Almost a smile.
“I see.”
She made another note. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Then she asked to speak with each of us separately.
Liam went first.
I sat at the kitchen table, listening to the muffled cadence of voices through the walls—catching only fragments, the occasional low laugh from Liam. What was he saying? What was she asking? What version of our story was he giving her?
When it was my turn, Judith sat across from me, her clipboard set aside. Her full attention fixed on my face.
“Tell me about your relationship with Mr. Murphy. How did you meet?”
The question was clipped. Procedural.
“At work,” I said, grounding myself before continuing. “I transferred to the West Valley Springs fire station about two years ago. He was already on the crew.”
“And when did you start dating?”
There it was.
I drew a slow breath and let it settle.
“It wasn’t like that,” I said carefully. “We worked side by side for a long time before anything changed. He was dealing with his own things. I was too.” A pause. “At some point, we stopped handling it alone. The rest followed.”
Judith’s pen moved again. No expression. No cue.
“When did you know he was the one?”
The air caught in my throat.
Images surfaced without permission—Liam in the barn, guiding Mia without pressure. A mug of chamomile placed in my hands before I realized I needed it. His fingers at my back in the courtroom, steady and unmoving.
I lifted my eyes.
“He shows up,” I said quietly. “That’s what matters. He shows up—for Mia, for me, for the people he cares about. No announcements. No conditions.” A beat. “He’s just there. Every time.”
I stopped, the realization hitting me as the words settled.
I wasn’t inventing anything.
“I think that’s when I knew,” I continued. “When I realized I could count on him. That he wasn’t going anywhere, no matter how complicated things got.”
Judith held my gaze a moment longer than necessary, like she was weighing something I couldn’t see. Then her pen moved—brief, economical—and she shifted seamlessly into the next question.
I stayed where I was, pulse loud in my ears, the echo of my own words lingering uncomfortably.
At some point, the lies had stopped feeling borrowed and started settling in like they belonged.
And Judith wasn’t finished yet. Not even close.
Judith finally left around noon, a polite promise about filing her report within the week trailing behind her as she walked to her car.
I stood frozen until the engine started, until the sound of it faded down the driveway.
Only then did my shoulders drop, the release sharp enough to make me sway slightly where I stood.
Air filled my lungs like I’d been holding it hostage all morning.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Liam broke the silence, trying for lightness. It didn’t quite land. His jaw was still tight, his hands flexing like he hadn’t realized he was braced for impact.
We stayed in the living room, surrounded by the careful order we’d constructed. Everything in its place. Too perfect. Too deliberate. The house felt smaller now, crowded by evidence I couldn’t unsee.
My things were still there. In his room. My pillow on his bed, the dent shaped unmistakably like my head. My shampoo in his shower, next to his, no longer looking temporary—just… placed.
The thought tightened my chest.
“I should move my stuff back.” The words came out before I could soften them, a reflex dressed up as practicality.
Liam nodded. “I’ll help.”